War is Hell
by SourCherryJuice
Summary: War was hell, even for the ones who were lucky enough to get away from the frontlines alive. Arthur Kirkland knew that better than anyone. But he never considered himself a lucky man. He had lost his family and the use of his right knee during the war, and all he had left now of his old life was the little café his father had opened so many years ago. That old life was about to end
1. Chapter 1

Arthur Kirkland groaned irritably, tossing and turning in his bed. Those damned air raid sirens were going off again. Heaving a heavy sigh, he reached for the cane beside the bed and leveraged himself up, dressing in his robe and slippers before making his way as quickly as he possibly could to the bomb shelter just outside the apartment complex where he lived. It must have been quite late at night; it was incredibly dark, all the lights in London having been extinguished in the hopes of avoiding another rash of bombs. It seemed to be of no luck, however, as a barrage of thunderous explosions rocked the city, a great shaking felt even in the bomb shelter currently occupied by the remaining people housed in the complex. There were three families remaining, one lonely old woman and her seven tortoiseshell cats, and Arthur. The city was practically deserted by now. The only citizens remaining were those who were too poor to leave, and those who were too proud to leave.

Arthur fell into the second category. He had been one of the many to leave to defend his homeland some three years ago, a proud member of Royal Air Force, though a bullet to the knee at the hands of a Nazi soldier after a devastating crash had put an end to his promising career as a soldier before he had even managed to leave his mark. As if that hadn t been disappointing enough, he had returned home to find his family dead, his parents and his three older brothers and their wives and children all victims of one of the many air raids that had occurred in the years that he had been gone. All that he had left of them was the large flat they that had all lived in together before a series of marriages had broken them up, the caf his father has opened in 1924 and the fuzzy memories of the relatively peaceful life he had had with them before this God-forsaken war had started. At the rate the city was being destroyed, though, those old, fading memories would be all he had left of his family within the week. The Nazis were stepping up their efforts, it seemed, and there was really no way for the people of London to defend themselves.

And so they fled.

The thought of fleeing his homeland did not sit well with Arthur's stomach, nor with his pride, but what choice did he have? He was no longer a soldier; he was a civilian, and a disabled one at that. The gunshot wound had shattered his kneecap, and he had an exceedingly difficult time getting around, even with the cane he now carried. Hell, it took a good five minutes for him to get down the stairs and out to the complex's bomb shelter, a trip that, for most others, took less than half a minute.

It was with that trip in mind that Arthur decided to sleep in the shelter for the night; Dawn was already approaching by the time those blasted sirens had ceased their infernal shrieking, and the shelter was dark and quiet. He and the other tenants even had sets of spare clothes and toiletries in her. Why bother trekking back inside when he would be forced back outside within a few hours?

Of course, sleeping there had negative consequences: There was no alarm clock in the shelter, and Arthur had slept in by quite a bit, and he was thus late for work. Working was more of a cure for his boredom than a way to make money, really, as there were rarely customers. The entire week, only three people had stepped into the caf , excluding himself, and one of them was his neighbors' little girl, who only came by to drop off a lunch her mother had prepared for him, and he had served her for free. It had been a bit of a disappointment, though: He was hoping to at least make a quick buck. The Kirkland Caf was going under fast, and there was nothing that Arthur could do about it.

He shivered in his ragged overcoat as he walked to the coffee shop that day, regretting the decision to even bother with showing up. He was the only employee who hadn't fled the city, and he wasn't even needed there. The likelihood of a customer choosing today of all days to step into the worn-out little caf was next to zero, if not zero itself. But it did get him out of the house and give him something to do, even if it was just cleaning whatever mess was left from the last air raid and making sure that he hadn't been robbed in the night.

The caf was the first along the road, he was currently turning onto, and when he saw the front of the old coffee shop was the last thing he had expected: The windows had been blown out of the front of the building completely, along with most of the other buildings along the road, save those whose windows had already been boarded up. That was not the only surprise. There was a man sitting on the curb on front of the caf , smoking a cigarette and looking quite relaxed. As he approached this strange man, the scent of soap and expensive cologne hit him hard, in the best possible way. What on Earth could a man who looked and smelled so clean be doing in a place like this? he wondered as he limped up to the door. "Morning," he grumbled, unsure of how else to initiate a conversation. Being the youngest of four mischievous brothers had instilled in him a certain distrust for people, but this man seemed... Interesting in a way. He was certainly out of place. "Can I help you with something?"

"Oh, oui, good morning." The man - French, apparently - stood, dusting off his fashionable-looking coat before he offered his hand to Arthur. "Are you the owner of this establishment?"

Hesitating, Arthur shook his hand and answered tensely, "I am."

The Frenchman smiled at that. "Then I'm your customer."

"You know, the front window is completely gone," Arthur said, at quite the loss for words as he unlocked the front door of the caf . "You could have just gone in..."

"And made an even bigger mess?" The Frenchman seemed to have taken the suggestion as an insult. "Non, absolutely not. I've spent most of my working life ruining people' lives; I don't want to do it while I'm on leave as well."

"You ruin peoples' live for a living?" Arthur smirked as the lock clicked, and he opened the door, gesturing the other man inside, to the small bar at the back of the caf . "What, are you a lawyer?"

"I was." The Frenchman sighed as he took a seat, watching as Arthur poured a jug of water into a pot sitting on the single burner of the little stove behind the counter. "I was quite good at it, too. But, in times like this, no one really has the time, money or energy to sue anyone, so it seems I'm temporarily unemployed." He glanced up to see Arthur cleaning two mugs with a clean white cloth produced from somewhere beneath the counter. "And what about you, mon ami?" he asked. "Is this what you do for a living?"

"I suppose you could say that," Arthur answered, setting the first mug on the counter in favor of the other. "When my father was killed, I inherited this place and the little flat where he and my mother and brothers lived." He gave a sorrowful sigh as he glanced around at the debris-ridden remains of what had once been his father's legacy. The place that had provided quite amply for a family of six was in ruins now. It really was a shame. "I worked here growing up, too," Arthur added, a nostalgic smile crossing his face. "My brothers and I did most of the cleaning. It saved quite a bit of money, and it kept us out of trouble for the most part. It was a good system."

"It sounds that way."

The smile on Arthur's face faded a bit. "Then the War started..."

"You were a soldier." It was less a question than a statement.

"Yes."

"And that's what happened to your leg?" the Frenchman asked, leaning forward onto his elbows so that he could look over the counter to where Arthur was sitting. The Englishman had pulled a stool from beneath the counter the moment he arrived back there, his cane resting against the counter itself. "It was a war wound?"

"Shot in the knee by a Nazi soldier," Arthur answered, placing the second mug on the counter and turning to fetch the water boiling on the single-burner stove behind him. "Tea will have to do, he added as he poured the water into what appeared to be a stainless steel kettle. We've no coffee left."

"Tea will be fine," the Frenchman said, making a dismissive gesture with his hand.

"Earl Grey?"

"Please."

When Arthur turned away once more, this time in search of tea leaves and an infuser, the Frenchman asked, "Do you remember how or when or where it happened?"

"That's the funny thing about it," Arthur said, not even the faintest trace of humor in his voice. "I don't remember any of the fighting itself." Finally retrieving the items he was looking for, he scooped a few teaspoons of dried leaves into the infuser and dropped it into the still steaming kettle. "The crash I was in right before it happened caused quite a lot of damage, and I have a hard time remembering the war at all, though it s probably better that way. My mother always thought it was due to the stress. I would tell her about it in letters - That's the only way I know most of what I know about what happened - and she would send me back ways I could relax... Tea, mediation, card games, things like that..."

"She sounds like a smart woman."

She was.

A frown overtook the Frenchman s face at that. You don t speak to her anymore? he asked, brows furrowed.

"She's dead."

"Oh..." The Frenchman cleared his throat awkwardly. "I'm sorry," he said next, sounding genuine.

"Don't worry about it," Arthur said, shrugging his shoulders and leaning over the back counter to watch the tea steeping. "They all died together, at least."

"What happened?" The Frenchman cleared his throat again. "If you don't mind my asking, of course."

"I don't mind." Arthur lifted the kettle, carefully pouring the tea into the two mugs he had set out earlier. He fetched the sugar and creamer from beneath the counter before he spoke again. "They were on an outing of some sort when there was an air raid, or at least that's what I was told. I suppose they just didn't make it to a shelter in time."

"That's terrible."

"Yes."

A heavy, morose silence fell over the two as they sipped at their tea.

"So..." The Frenchman stared down into the mug of steaming liquid placed before him, his expression thoughtful. "There were four sons, but only you were the only one serving?"

"Yes." Arthur placed his cup down on the counter, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. "My brothers had their reasons not to fight. They all had either careers or wives or fianc es or children." A wry smile twisted the corner of Arthur's mouth. "I was always the black sheep of the family, you see. My parents didn't treat me any differently than they did my brothers, but my brothers themselves... I can't really say they bullied me, but I was always getting picked on, called a Mama's boy, having tricks played on me. Typical older brother behavior, I suppose." Arthur glanced down at his tea. "I could always tell they didn't exactly think highly of me. We got along fairly well, though, most of the time."

"You're lucky," the Frenchman said, smiling a bit. "I always thought it would be nice to have older brothers. Or brothers at all, for that matter. The closest family member I have is a cousin in New York City."

"Is that where you're headed?" Arthur asked, glancing up from his cup once more.

"Oui. I plan on staying with him for as long as it takes for me to get back on my feet," the Frenchman informed his companion. He sighed. "It is going to take some time, though, given the system is quite different in America..."

"What if being a lawyer doesn't work out?" Arthur was a bit surprised at his own question, but he pressed on nonetheless. "What do you plan to do then?"

"Well, being a chef could be fun," the Frenchman chuckled, a dreamy look in his eyes.

His beautiful, brilliant blue eyes...

Arthur shook his head. No. He had gotten rid of those thoughts when he had joined the military and by God, he was not about to start having them again.

"And I am French, after all," his companion continued, apparently completely unaware of the intoxicating effect he was having on the smaller blonde. "I could get a job with nothing but my charm, accent and good looks!"

"I can see it now," Arthur agreed, surprising himself once again. "Chef-" He trailed off. "I never caught your name..."

The Frenchman chuckles again. "It's about time you asked!"

"I'm sorry," came Arthur's reply, soft and a little flustered, "it's rude to speak to someone before you know their name, isn t it?"

"A bit." The Frenchman held out his hand once more, and, luckily, he didn't seem to be offended at all by Arthur's lack of manners. "I'm Francis Bonnefoy. And you are...?"

"Arthur Kirkland," the Brit replied, reaching out to shake the other's hand, hesitating even more so than before, black leather meeting undoubtedly soft skin. Arthur regretted wearing gloves. Normally, he would have taken them off the minute he entered the caf , but the window being broken was clearly letting in the winter chill enveloping the city. It was acceptable to still be wearing a coat and scarf and gloves inside under these conditions, wasn t it?

That smile was certainly warming him up, though. The smile the French- Francis. The smile Francis was giving him was just gorgeous. And that was enough to set Arthur on edge again. He wasn't that sort of person. He was a military official, and he certainly was not the sort to fantasize over another man, even if this man was gorgeous, with his long, silky blonde hair and lovely blue eyes and that scruffy chin that would probably feel incredible against-

No.

Arthur sighed, rolling his eyes. This was bad.

This man was too... Too what? Too gorgeous? Too charming? Too perfect?

"Is something wrong?"

The sound of Francis's voice snapped Arthur out of his trance. "What?"

"I asked if something was wrong," Francis restated, his well-groomed brows furrowing in concern. "You didn't seem... All there."

Shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear it, Arthur managed to force out a weak, "I'm fine."

That was anything but true. This man was awakening feelings in him that he hadn't experienced in years. He hadn't had any of those sorts of thoughts in years, before his mother had found out what was going on in his head. She hadn't tried to repress him out of spite or hate or ignorance or anything of the sort, but she had repressed him nonetheless. It had been for his own good, he knew that; she only did it out of concern for his general wellbeing. But instead of removing the homosexual urges alone, he had ended up more asexual than anything else. He had wooed and dated girls of all sorts, but none of them really struck his fancy. He simply wasn't interested in girls. He had managed to hide it fairly well, though. Girls certainly seemed interested in him. And why shouldn t they have been? He was attractive enough, he knew that, though he knew his personality was rather lacking. It didn't matter, though. Not really. He had no interest. Femininity had little value in Arthur's mind. Masculinity - Tall, strong men, a bit muscular, with a deep voice - was his primary weakness. That had made his military training difficult, but he had somehow managed to repress himself completely. He may as well have been a eunuch.

But Francis...

Francis was going to complicate that prefect situation.

"You're doing it again."

Another sigh slipped past Arthur's lips, and he pressed his hand to his forehead. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice soft. "I'm just... Feeling a little out of sorts."

The next breath he took was a sharp inhale as he felt Francis's bare hand lifting his hair away from his forehead, a pair of warm, soft lips soon being pressed to his forehead.

"You don't feel warm..."

"There was an air raid last night." Good boy, Artie! Thank God he felt himself relaxing. "I ended up sleeping in the bomb shelter. It was too much work to walk all the way back upstairs just to sleep for a few more hours."

"Do you have that much of a problem getting around?" Francis asked as he pulled away.

"I have to use a cane, don't I?" Arthur offered, shrugging his shoulders, a slight scowl on his face.

"Yes, I suppose you do."

His expression stormy, Arthur grabbed onto his right thigh, pulling his leg up to rest his foot highest rung of the stool. He pulled up the leg of trousers up next, revealing the mess of scars and swollen, distended tissue that make up what was left of his right knee. All of the carnage was centered around a single, small wound at the lower left, the scars seeming to spider web out, surrounded by a halo of shrapnel marks.

Francis gave a visible shudder at the sight. "That must have hurt," he whispered, though he knew that that was a massive understatement. "Honestly, I'm surprised you can walk at all."

"So were the doctors," Arthur replied, staring down at the ruined flesh. "But here I am."

"You must be quite a strong person." Francis sounded oddly impressed by that. "You've been through so much..." He paused for a moment before those pretty blue eyes met Arthur's again. "How old are you, Arthur?"

"Twenty-three," the Brit replied. "You?"

"Twenty-eight," Francis said, almost sounding as though he was admitting to some dark, terrible secret. "I'm older than you, and I've never done anything like that."

"Anything like...?"

"Defending my country." Francis dropped his eyes to his lap, looking a bit shamed. "I've always been a bit of a coward, I suppose."

"You are French," Arthur allowed, though all that got him was an exceptionally dirty look from the other. "I can't recall meeting any French soldiers."

"Can you recall any of the soldiers at all?" Francis asked, letting the "French" comment slide. "If you can't remember the fighting, can you at least remember your comrades?"

"Not many of them," Arthur admitted, finally rolling the leg of his slacks back down and gently lowering his foot onto the floor. "I remember my commanding officer, and two or three of the other soldiers of my own rank. The rest of them are just... Blurs, really. I occasionally see their faces, especially those of the ones who died." He gave a humorless laugh at that. "All the ones I remember wound up dying."

Francis said nothing, though that thoughtful look stayed on his face all the while.

"I do remember one American soldier, though."

"And why is that?" Francis asked, one eyebrow lifting in curiosity.

"He saved my life." The look of utter gratitude in those pretty green eyes was more than enough to convince Francis that Arthur truly felt he owed his life to whoever this unnamed American was. "The one who shot me was a member of the S.S.," Arthur explained, looking down into his tea once more, his eyes glazing over, as if he could see this Nazi in his mind's eye. "A high-ranker, too, though his name was all I remember..."

"And what was his name?" Francis asked, his voice quiet, a bit nervous to ask the man who had so kindly served him to remember something so awful simply to satisfy his own curiosity.

"Beillschmidt," Arthur said, that glassy look fading into a dark, hateful scowl. "Ludwig Beillschmidt. I managed to shoot him down myself, but he had a brother. Gilbert was his name, I think. He had apparently seen what had happened, and he was about to essentially execute me when Alfred came along."

"And Alfred is the American," Francis guessed.

"Yes. He put himself into the line of fire to protect me, took a bullet to the shoulder defending someone he had never met, someone who wasn t even from the same country. He could have died, but he managed to pull the trigger first." A wry chuckle passed Arthurs lips. "I still have no idea if it was skill or just dumb luck."

"He sounds like quite the hero."

"I truly believe he is," was Arthur's response, his voice taking on a tone of awe. "Would you sacrifice yourself for someone you had never met?"

Though he said nothing in response, Francis did shake his head.

"I don't imagine most people would."

"And is this Alfred of yours still alive?" Francis asked, his eyes meeting Arthur's, though the other seemed unaware of that.

"I believe so," Arthur replied. "I get letters from him from time to time, and the last one came a few weeks ago. His platoon was headed toward Berlin. He seemed quite excited about it, too. He wants more than anything to fight the Nazis at their headquarters."

"Brave man."

"Yes."

"Is admiration all you feel for him?" Francis asked a few seconds later, breaking the silence that had fallen between the two of them.

Arthur took in a shaky breath before he managed to force out, "What do you mean?"

"I'm not stupid, cher." Francis leaned in to steal a single soft kiss before he whispered to the other, "I've seen how you're looking at me." 


	2. Chapter 2

"Is admiration all you feel for him?" Francis asked a few seconds later, breaking the silence that had fallen between the two of them.

Arthur took in a shaky breath before he managed to force out, "What do you mean?"

"I'm not stupid, cher." Francis leaned in to steal a single soft kiss before he whispered to the other, "I've seen how you're looking at me."

"You're imagining things," was Arthur's response, though the flush quickly overtaking his face made it clear that Francis was certainly not imagining anything.

"So I'm imagining the way you look at me?" the Frenchman inquired, a smug smirk on his handsome face.

"I'm not looking at you any differently than I look at anyone else."

"And I'm imagining how flustered you are right now?" Francis asked, growing smugger by the second.

"I'm perfectly calm." Arthur was far from calm, though he hid it fairly well, or so he though.

Francis leaned in close again, a bit disappointed when the Brit pulled back, and whispered, "And I m imagining the love in your eyes whenever you speak of this Alfred fellow?"

"I don t love Alfred, Arthur grumbled, crossing his arms defensively as glaring as hard as he could at the other man. I feel a great deal of gratitude toward him, that s all. It s gratitude and nothing more."

"You're a stubborn little thing, aren't you?" Francis chuckled, looking oddly amused. "If anyone deserves to be comfortable with themself, it's you. You're a veteran. You're practically a hero." The next laugh sounded a bit bitter. "And you're still not comfortable with who you are?"

"I'm perfectly comfortable with who I am!" Arthur made to stand with that, slamming his fists down onto the counter, his knee completely forgotten. That is, until the sparkles started dancing before his eyes and he collapsed onto the floor, the pain in the old wound too much to bear.

"Arthur!" Francis stood next, dashing to the other side of the counter, only to be stopped by a command from the stubborn Brit.

"Stop!"

The Frenchman stopped in his tracks at the far end of the bar, a good ten feet away, but now on the proper side, and he could see that at least there didn t appear to be and blood or broken bones. Thank God. "Arthur, I don't think you can-"

"I'm fine." Arthur's voice was strained and oddly rough, his face drawn and pale, a thin sheen of sweat already forming upon his brow. "I've fallen before, and I ve always gotten up on my own. I don't need help, least of all from some stranger."

Francis was silent for a moment before he sighed in resignation, "If you insist..."

"Believe me, I do." With that, those pretty green eyes focused on the ground, shining in determination. That look could have been tears, but even if they were, there was no way Arthur would admit to it. The Englishman took a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself before he pushed himself up onto his hands, soon reaching up to grasp the edge of the counter. With a grunt of exertion, he pulled himself up with his right hand, using the other to grab the stool behind him and stand it up, his injured leg still splayed out before him. In one great burst of movement, he pulled himself the rest of the way up, sighing in relief as he once again found himself seated upon the stool.

A bit awestruck, Francis smiled. "Impressive," was all he could think to say.

"Thank you." Though he was clearly winded, Arthur smiled as well. "Haven't done that in a while." He smoothed down his trousers after that, fixing the creases before looking up at Francis once more. "You can sit back down if you like," the Brit said, gesturing toward where the Frenchman had been sitting before his little accident. "Just take care not to say such ridiculous things anymore."

Though he looked a bit affronted, Francis complied, moving back to the seat he had previously been occupying. "I didn't mean to upset you," he said. "And I know you think I'm just imagining things, but really..."

An irritated sigh passed the Brit's soft, inviting lips, but his companion pressed on nonetheless, completely ignoring him and his protests.

"I ve gotten that look from plenty of people. Women and men alike, Francis added, as if it made any difference, and I know it when I see it."

Sighing again, Arthur responded, "I don t like to talk about it."

"Ah, so you're done denying it?"

That smirk was annoying, and Arthur's scowl deepened. "No, I'm not denying it," he all but growled, his irritation apparent. "I just... Am really uncomfortable talking about it, especially with some man I don't even know."

Nodding in understanding, Francis said, "That makes sense." Slowly, hesitating a bit so as not to startle the other man again, he reached out to touch Arthur's shoulder. "But, you know, I think you'd be much happier if you just accepted it."

"I doubt that," Arthur replied, pouring himself another cup of tea and pulling a small jar of cookies out from beneath the counter. "Opening oneself up to persecution is generally not a good idea."

"Mmm." Francis accepted the offering for a second cup of tea, forgoing the cookies. They looked rather stale. "If someone says something negative about you, you ignore them," he said. "Believe me, cher; I've been doing it all my life. And what with being a lawyer, people aren't exactly fond of me."

"So you're saying it's an acquired skill?"

"Are all Brits so cynical?" Francis asked, clearly not amused despite the little smirk quirking up the edges of his companion s lips.

"It's one of our hallmark traits," was the smaller blonde's snappy retort.

That expression, though, was enough to cause Francis to chuckle. "At least you re not always so somber," he said, smiling a bit. "I think I prefer you like this."

"What's wrong with being somber?" Arthur inquired, looking a bit insulted.

"There's nothing wrong with it, exactly," Francis explained, idly twisting one of the buttons on his sleeve of his coat. "But when someone is always in a somber mood, it tends to push others away. And, really, who wants to be alone?"

"Maybe I do."

"Then you would be a liar," Francis argued in a highly matter-of-fact tone. Shrugging his shoulders, he continued, "Human beings are social creatures, Arthur. Being alone has no positive effect on us."

"I've been alone for years," was Arthur's argument, his thick brows furrowing in irritation. "It hasn't had a negative effect on me yet."

The deadpan look Francis was giving him nearly made him laugh, but he managed to hold it back. "Don't kid yourself," the Frenchman said. "You're one of the most isolated people I've ever met, and believe me, cher, it shows."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" the Brit asked, glaring hard with those lovely bottle-green eyes.

"It means that you need a friend," Francis answered, meeting the other's eyes despite the Brit's being clearly hesitant. "Or, at the very least, you need someone you can talk to."

"And I suppose you think that you are the perfect 'someone to talk to? "

"I wouldn't say 'perfect,'" the Frenchman disagreed, though his annoying grin clearly showed that he thought otherwise. "But I do think we'd make a decent pair."

"We're both men, Francis," Arthur snapped, looking both angry and disgusted. "We wouldn't even make a pair. We'd make an abomination."

The Frenchman just shook his head in response, a bemused smile on his face.

"What's so funny?" Arthur asked, more on edge than angry.

"Just you."

"I'm not funny."

"Just your way of thinking," Francis explained, chuckling once more. "I can't decide if you re courageous or a coward."

That earned a pretty glare and a harsh growl of, "I am not a coward!"

Francis jumped a bit when that angry growl faded into a horrid shrieking sound.

"Air raid," was all Arthur said before climbing stiffly to his feet and, with the aid of his cane, hobbling to the other side of the counter, grabbing Francis's sleeve and hauling him out of the caf , and into the street. It seemed as though the city was populated again, the remaining citizens scrambling about in search of the nearest bomb shelter. "It's over here!" Arthur called over the siren, his voice barely audible, despite the fact that he was less than a foot away. The two headed to the alley to the side of the little building, Arthur leading them toward a pair of doors in the ground and kneeling beside it as best he could on his injured knee, the handles held together with a heavy-looking chain and a sturdy padlock. "It's not really a bomb shelter," the Brit said over his shoulder as he unlocked the cellar doors and gestured the other man down the steps, "but it'll have to do. The other shelters are too far."

The Frenchman hesitated a bit before he took his first step into the utter darkness of the cellar, the door slamming closed behind him as Arthur followed, struggling to make his way down the steep stairs. "Would you like-"

"I can handle it," came the terse reply from midway down the stairs. The shuffling of the Brit's feet filled the silence of the cellar, the dark little space somehow blocking out the sound of the sirens screaming just outside. Soon enough, the smaller of the men managed to get down the stairs completely, using a match stowed in his trouser pocket to light a small oil lantern at the foot of the set of steps, illuminating the dank little space.

"Homey little place," Francis chuckled nervously, mostly in a failed attempt to comfort himself.

"It's not much," Arthur said, sounding equally ill at ease, "but it's relatively safe down here." A wry smile crossed his face, his teeth glinting like pears in the dim light from the little lantern as he settled with a groan beside Francis on an empty crate. "At the very least," he added, "it hasn't collapsed yet."

"Very funny." Francis was clearly not amused.

"Oh, lighten up," Arthur laughed, the sound more sarcastic than anything else. "You act as though there were no attacks in Paris or wherever it is you came from."

"I'm from Paris," Francis responded crossly, "and there were quite a few attacks there, obviously. I am just not fond of speaking or reliving them."

"Well, I'm not fond of discussing my..." Arthur trailed off, his face flushing a bit, visible even in the dim light of the cellar. "Romantic interests." He cleared his throat. "But I talked to you about them anyway. So now you have to tell me just what happened in Paris that was so awful."

"It's a long story..."

"We have plenty of time," Arthur deadpanned, earning an eye roll from the other. "In case you hadn't noticed, we're-"

"I know where we are!" Francis regretted those words the second they passed his lips, mostly, if not only, for the mingled anger, offense and slight bit of hurt overtaking the lovely emerald gaze of the ex-solider beside him. The Frenchman let out a breath long and slow, in an attempt to calm himself down once more. "During a raid a few months ago, my home, the house where I had grown up in, the house I shared with my wife was-"

"You had a wife?"

All Arthur got for that was a sharp glare before Francis continued: "It was almost completely destroyed, and my wife died there. My Angelique, oh, she was beautiful. We had been set to marry when we were younger by our families, when they first arrived in Paris. They were originally from Monte Carlo, and they really had no plans and no real friends, so naturally an arranged marriage sounded logical to them. And when she turned eighteen a few years ago, we were wed. We loved each other, but the marriage was ultimately fruitless, and I eventually confessed to her how I felt. Nothing surprised me more than the fact that she wasn't offended by the fact that I had no sexual attraction towards her. I loved her, truly I did, and I thought her utterly beautiful, but I've no physical interest in women. She knew that, and she didn't seem to care. Our marriage was quite prosperous, actually, if you could even call it a marriage at all."

"And then she was killed."

The Frenchman nodded numbly. "And then she was killed."

"I'm sorry," was all Arthur could think to say, though he did understand how it felt to lose a loved one.

Francis merely shrugged his shoulders, and even in the less-than-effective light of the lantern, Arthur could easily see the tears welling up in to those pretty blue eyes.

"I know how you feel," the Brit whispered, hardly realizing that he had spoken aloud.

"I know you do," Francis whispered back, staring down at his clasped hands, "but that doesn't really make it any easier to talk about it."

"No, I suppose not."

The two of them fell silent after that; the only sounds they could hear their own breathing and the occasional scurrying of some rodent across the floor. The lantern near the stairs leading outside was casting strange, writhing shadows along the walls of the cellar, though neither man seemed to care, each lost deep in their own thoughts. Thoughts of their pasts, their lives, the loved ones they had lost... Both men soon grew weary of such an utterly depressing topic, though Francis was the first to break the silence, humming softly to himself.

Arthur listened for a moment, smiling a bit before he finally spoke: "La Vie En Rose."

The humming cut off quite suddenly, and the Frenchman turned to face his companion, looking absolutely astounded. "You listen to Edith Piaf?" Francis inquired, eyes wide.

"From time to time," Arthur answered with a shrug. "She has a nice voice."

Unable to stop himself, Francis smiled. "That she does," he agreed.

Silence fell once more, with the exception of the older man's soft, contented humming. With that wonderful sound playing in the background, the eerie, damp cellar seemed a little less creepy, and Arthur soon found himself joining in on the show.

The song soon ended, though, and the pleasant feeling melted away, leaving nothing but silence and solemnity.

"...Francis?"

"Hmm?"

"Would you take a look outside?" the Brit asked. "I don't want to have to go up the stairs for no reason, if I can avoid it."

"Of course," was the answer, coming almost instantly. Struggling through the dim little cellar, Francis eventually felt his way to the stairs, and up them to the door, only to find them- "It's locked," he called to the other man, glancing over his shoulder just in time to see Arthur twirling a ring of keys around his index finger, grinning smugly. Try as he might, Francis couldn't suppress the laughter that bubbled up past his lips at that. "I really don t know whether to adore you, or to despise you," the Frenchman admitted, shaking his head and smiling.

"I'd go with the latter," Arthur replied, shrugging his shoulders as if it didn't bother him in the least. "Most people go with that one anyway." That said, he tossed the keys to Francis, a bit surprised when the other managed to catch them.

"And you're telling me that you don't care that they hate you?" Francis asked as he undid the lock and chain securing the door.

"Why should I?" was the snarky reply he got. "They don't matter."

"But you're still afraid what they would have to say if they found out that you're only interested in men?"

"I'm not afraid!"

Sighing, Francis pushed the doors open. "Keep telling yourself that, Arthur," he said softly. "Maybe one day it'll be true." 


	3. Chapter 3

"And you're telling me that you don't care that they hate you?" Francis asked as he undid the lock and chain securing the door.

"Why should I?" was the snarky reply he got. "They don't matter."

"But you're still afraid what they would have to say if they found out that you're only interested in men?"

"I'm not afraid!"

Sighing, Francis pushed the doors open. "Keep telling yourself that, Arthur," he said softly. "Maybe one day it'll be true."

Arthur just rolled his eyes at that, though he did tense up when the doors were fully open.

The Frenchman was equally tense as he silently watched and listened. The sirens had gone quiet, and there didn't appear to be any more damage than there was before they had gone off. "I think it was a false alarm," Francis said over his shoulder. "It doesn't look any different out here..."

"Oh, yeah?" Arthur used the cane to push himself up to his feet, limping over the foot of the stairs. "That's good then." That said, he began to climb, blowing the lantern out on the way.

Letting the other man out into the daylight, Francis knelt to secure the chain and lock on the cellar doors, soon standing and returning the key to its rightful owner.

"I think you re right," Arthur said after some time, his eyes restlessly scanning the road for any sign of damage, and luckily finding none. "Suppose we should go back inside."

With a nod of agreement, Francis followed his host around the alleyway and back into the caf . He stopped, though, when Arthur stopped. "Arthur?" the Frenchman asked, stepping up to the other man's side. Hesitating in the face of the utter fury in those pretty green eyes, Francis inquired, "What is it?"

"I've been robbed," was the reply, Arthur's voice literally trembling in anger.

"Are you sure?" Francis took a step further into the caf , eyes darting about. "It doesn't look any different to me..."

"You're not here every day," Arthur says, hobbling over to the counter and into the personnel area he occupied before, making his way over to the area beneath the bar, kneeling as best he can beside it. "All the food is gone," he called over his shoulder, watching the other approach a bit nervously. Looks like all the tea is gone, too." He picked up one of the little canisters under the bar and opened it. "Sugar's gone." Sighing irritably, he tossed the empty can back onto the little shelf. He opened another canister and added, "Powdered milk, too." Arthur sighed again, turning toward the old family photograph at the end of the bar, where it joined with the side wall. That sigh, though, had a completely different tone than the previous one. He sounded hurt.

"Arthur..." Francis did his best to speak softly, carefully, though it ultimately had no effect on his companion.

"I quit."

"What?" The Frenchman took a step closer, though he moved cautiously, for despite the fact that they had just met, he already knew of the other's temper. "Your family owned this place, oui? You can't just give up on it."

Lowering himself down onto a nearby stool, Arthur replied, "It's not even the same place. It's barely even the shell."

"Even so, you can't-"

Francis was cut off almost instantly by a hiss of, "Don't tell me what I can and can't do!"

"Fine." Going quiet for a moment in thought, the Frenchman eventually said, "You shouldn't give up on this place just yet. It's a part of your family's history. Are you really comfortable with just abandoning it?"

"I'm not staying in London."

"And where are you going?" Francis inquired as firmly as he could, crossing his arms across his chest.

"America, I suppose," Arthur said with a shrug, leaning forward to rest his arms on the counter, supporting his chin in the palm of his hand. "That's where everyone else seems to be going, anyway. It's not as though I could stay in Europe."

"Is that the real reason you're going to America?"

Something was off in Francis's voice, Arthur decided, though his only response was a soft, restrained, "Hmm?"

"Is the only reason you're going to America because everyone else is going there?" the Frenchman inquired, one eyebrow raised, the ghost of a smirk forming upon his lips. "Or are you just looking for this Alfred?"

"Alfred isn't in America," came Arthur's matter-of-fact reply. "He's en route to Berlin. I already told you that."

"Yes, you did, didn't you?"

A soft hush fell over the two for a moment before Francis asked, "You intend to go to New York, I assume?"

"Yes."

"Do you have anywhere to go?" Francis inquired next, producing a silvery flask from one of the inner pockets of his coat before unscrewing the cap and taking a swig. "Or do you just plan on living on the streets until you can return to London?"

"Well, I don't imagine living on the streets over there can be much worse than living in a flat over here," was Arthur's answer. Hesitating a bit, he took the flask Francis offered and took a sip, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Grimacing at the taste - Who drank wine from a flask, anyway? - he handed it back. "Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering if you would want to come with me."

"To New York, you mean?"

"Oui."

Arthur went silent at that, his eyes drifting back to the old family photo. The glass was cracked, but the people in the frame didn't seem to be affected by that at all. A man and a woman stood in the back, both looking happy and proud before the caf on what Francis assumed to be the day it had opened for business. There were four boys sitting on the curb in front of the little coffee shop, all with thick, dark eyebrows and wild hair, the tallest on one side, working down to Arthur on the other. All six members of the family were wearing nametags, but alas, from the distance he was at, Francis could not make out their names.

"I know that you miss them," the Frenchman said in a cautious tone, and I truly believe that you should re-open once the war is over, but I'm sure they would understand you wanting to get away for the time being. London is a dangerous place at the moment, and I don t imagine they d be too happy to see you so soon. Don t give up on them completely, though; Just give it a break for a while."

"Maybe you're right." Arthur picked up the frame, taking a close look at the photograph within. "I'm the only Kirkland left in the area. I suppose it's up to me to carry on the name, isn't it?"

Smiling just the slightest bit, Francis nodded. "It is."

"Then I suppose I have no other choice." Slipping the small photo frame into the pocket of his ratty overcoat, Arthur grabbed his cane and stood. "I'm certainly going to miss this place, though..."

"I can imagine why." Francis stood, too, watching as his host made his way to the other side of the counter. "My family owned a law firm in Paris, and it was a shared firm with my Angelique's family, so we only owned half of it, and I know that leaving it behind was quite difficult for me."

"It wasn't destroyed?" Arthur asked, sounding a little surprised as he arrived at Francis s side, waiting for the other to follow.

"Well, it was still standing when I left," the Frenchman explained as he fell into step behind the other man, both heading for the door. "For all I know, though, it could be gone now."

"Sad thought."

"Oui."

Once the two arrived outside, Arthur turned to face the building one last time, taking in all the broken glass and missing bricks and all the surrounding debris. It was a sad sight, but he was confident he would fix it once he got back to London after this God-forsaken war finally met its long-awaited end. Sighing, he turned away. "Let's go, Francis."

"Right behind you, cher."

What Arthur didn't see was the Frenchman staying behind a moment longer to make sure the door was locked. It wouldn't do much good, and the Frenchman knew that, but he hoped at least some good would come from it.

"Where do you live?"

Arthur jumped a bit when Francis's voice rang in his ear, and the Brit took a step back, putting some distance between them. "What?"

"I asked where you lived," Francis chuckled, burying his hands in his pockets. "We can gather your things, and in a day's time, we can board the ship and get out of the country. It's up to you."

Arthur gave no verbal answer, though he did nod once.

"If it's more than a block away, I can drive if you want."

Clearly a bit impressed, Arthur inquired, "You have a car?"

"I do."

Rolling his eyes, the Brit asked, "Well, where is it? I don't see any cars out here."

"Do you really think I would leave it in plain view in an area like this?" Francis challenged, pulling his hands from his pockets to cross his arms.

"'An area like this?'" Francis realized his mistake immediately, and the ferocious glare he was receiving in return was actually rather frightening. "What do you mean by that?"

"Arthur, you know I only meant-"

"That London is a bad area?" was Arthur s angry retort, that already razor-sharp glare honing to an even sharper point. "That it's below you? That you're exactly like every other snooty Parisian out there?"

"I'm not snooty," Francis snapped, not really planning to change the conversation's direction, though he was grateful for the change. "I'm refined. There's a difference, you know."

"Oh?"

"Oui, there is."

"And what is that difference?" Arthur inquired, cocking his left hip in an oddly similar stance to an irritated woman, though he kept all weight off his right knee.

A moment of silence fell between the two of them before Francis managed to chuckle out, "I suppose I'm not refined enough to answer that."

That pretty glare remained fixed on Arthur's face for a short while before a slight smile cracked through that facade. "Very funny," he said, his voice just the slightest bit sardonic despite the grin quirking the edges of his lips.

"A bit." Francis took a look around, those cerulean eyes darting about for a moment before he managed to catch sight of the spot he was looking for. "Between the second and third building away," he said, pointing to the alleyway they were in search of. "There's a tarp over it, provided it wasn't discovered already."

"If it was under a tarp, it should be fine," Arthur said, shrugging his right shoulder. "People might be inclined to think it a dud missile, or something dangerous, and I'm fairly certain they'd leave something like that be."

"I should hope so." Francis took another quick look around before he placed his hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Wait here, cher. I'll bring the car around and meet you here."

The look on Arthur s' face made his impression of that idea incredibly obvious.

Francis sighed, a bit disappointed by that. "You don't trust me."

"I don't trust anyone," was Arthur s reply. "Not before they give me reason to, anyway."

"And does that sentiment include yourself?" Francis inquired, one brow arching up in curiosity.

"It does," Arthur said, sounding completely sincere.

"So let me get this straight," Francis said, thoughtfully stroking his chin. "You went off to war to defend your home and your countrymen, wiped out a great deal of enemy soldiers, all but lost the use of your right knee, and somehow managed to survive a war that's killed an unknowable number of people, and yet you don't consider yourself a trustworthy person?"

When no reply came, Francis groaned, "Mon dieu, cherie, you're practically a hero!"

"I am not a hero," was Arthur's sharply whispered reply.

"And where on Earth would you get a silly idea like that?" Francis asked, looking just the slightest bit offended. "It's ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous is that you seem to have this insane notion that I'm some sort of a hero."

"You are a hero, cher."

"If anything, I'm a traitor."

Still looking confused, Francis took a seat on the curb. "Explain," was all he said as he watched Arthur settle shakily beside him.

"I left my family here while I went off in search of glory." Arthur's voice was low and soft as he spoke, staring down at his ruined knee with a mingled look of regret and disgust. "They died because of me, because I wasn't here to protect them." He clasped his hands together in his lap, his cane laid beside him on the ground. "They died because I was selfish and decided that I was no longer happy with my place among them."

"Arthur, cherie..." Francis sighed, leaning forward to rest his knees on his elbows and fixing his gaze onto the concrete between his feet. "These things happen," the Frenchman said, his voice deep and heavy with sorrow. "It's unfortunate, but there's nothing to be done about it. You just have to learn to live with it and move on." He smiled, turning to face his companion. "And you know something?"

"Hmm?"

Ignoring the other's obvious discomfort, Francis leaned in so that he and Arthur were sitting shoulder to shoulder. "The fact that you've lost so much and still managed to stay mostly intact through it all," the Frenchman continued, "isn't that heroic in and of itself?"

Those lovely bottle green eyes went wide for just the barest moment before they narrowed in thought, falling this time to the ground.

Seeing an opportunity, Francis leaned in once more in an attempt to steal a kiss, though he failed due to Arthur turning his head to divert the Frenchman's lips to his cheek at the very last second.

Francis would most likely have taken it as a loss, had it not been for the coy little smirk that overtook Arthur's face for a brief second afterwards. Chuckling and shrugging it off, Francis stood, dusting off his clothes before he said to his companion, "Wait here for a moment, and I'll bring the car around."

Nodding quietly, Arthur watched at the other walked away, silently wondering if we would indeed come back for him.

That question was soon answered, though, as he watched a beautiful black car pull up beside the curb. He had never been much of a car enthusiast, but his brothers all had, and he had picked up enough to recognize this particular vehicle: A Cadillac La Salle, 1931. It was gorgeous.

When Francis rolled down the driver's side window, though, the first words out of Arthur's mouth were a rather derisive, "You drive an American car?"

"I do." Francis gave the mirror on the door an affectionate pat. "I saw it on a trip to America to see Matthew," he explained, "and I decided that I simply had to have it. I had to have it modified so that I could drive it properly, but it was worth it. It's a beautiful car, oui?""

A little hesitantly, Arthur agreed, "It is."

Francis smiled as he opened the door and stepped out onto the concrete, holding his hand out to the other.

Rolling his eyes despite the smile on his face, Arthur took the Frenchman's hand, allowing himself to be helped to his feet and walked to the other side of the car, the door held open for him as he climbed inside. Once he was settled, he did up his seatbelt and rested his cane on the floor, relaxing into the warm leather seat as he watched Francis close the door and climb in on the other side.

"Ready to go, cher?" the Frenchman asked, one hand on the gearshift, the other on the steering wheel, looking at the other expectantly.

Hesitating for a moment, Arthur sighed before he gave his answer: "Yes."


	4. Chapter 4

The next few days were a blur: An unhappy blur of packing and leaving home and boarding some massive old cruise ship and several awful waves of seasickness. The ship was miserable as it was, if Arthur remembered correctly, with nearly everyone in tears, and the seasickness just served to make the situation even worse. Of course, the passengers were mostly the snooty, old-money sort that couldn t make do without every possible luxury. The days passed slowly, though Arthur hardly remembered them at all, save Francis bringing him his meals, and the Frenchman coming to him to deliver the news that they had finally arrived at their destination: Some far-off, misty island. Arthur couldn t even remember the name, let alone their doings on the island itself, aside from groggily handing his paperwork over to some official at a fancy desk and receiving a mountain of paperwork that he filled in on his own to the best of his ability, though he remembered Francis giving him a hand with it now and again. There was another long blur after that, leading into the now, where Arthur was lying on an almost too-soft mattress in a guest bedroom in the plush New York apartment of one Matthew Williams.

He was cute, this Matthew boy. He was maybe nineteen years of age, with pretty shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair and eyes such a bright, vivid shade of blue that they almost appeared to be violet. Arthur couldn t really tell his height, as the boy had been sitting most of the time, but the Englishman guessed him to be a bit taller than himself, though about an inch shorter than Francis. And he had this lean, lithe little figure...

There was a definite attraction there, though even through the haze enveloping his mind at present, Arthur fancied it to be an attraction purely of the physical sort.

Sure, Matthew was a sweetheart and nothing short of adorable, but sweet and adorable weren't the sort of traits that usually got Arthur's attention. Nonetheless, the saccharine scent of maple syrup was awfully tempting as it wafted down from the boy sitting in the bedside chair, pressing a cool rag to Arthur's forehead.

"I think he's coming around." Francis's voice was at Arthur's left ear, opposite of the younger blonde, though the sound was coming in clearer than it had in days. There was no static in his ears, no blurring in his eyes. It was nice to view the world clearly again.

"That's good," came the honey-sweet voice of the strawberry blonde, sounding more than a little relieved. "It's been two days now. I was starting to get worried."

"I'm fine." Though it was only two small words, they were incredibly difficult to get out: Despite the attention that had so kindly been lavished upon him by Francis and Matthew, Arthur was completely parched. He managed to force another pair of words past his dry, cracked lips: "Water, please."

"Oh! Yes, of course!" Matthew reached for the water pitcher on the bedside table before he poured the contents into a glass and handed it over.

Though more of the liquid ran down his chin than actually made it into his mouth, Arthur couldn't help but feel utterly refreshed. Thank you," was all he could say.

"Think nothing of it," Matthew replied, smiling sweetly down at him, ignoring the jealous look he was receiving from Francis. "So how are you feeling?" Matthew asked, watching quietly as Arthur struggled to sit up. "Would you like some help?"

"I've got it," Arthur said, finally managing to at least get up onto his elbows. "Thanks anyway," he added as an afterthought.

"I never got a 'thanks anyway,'" Francis grumbled, pouting.

Arthur smiled a bit at that. "Sorry 'bout that," he said, though he couldn t hide the amusement in his voice.

Francis merely smiled back. He wanted more than anything to simply reach out and hold Arthur's hand, but he got the distinct feeling that the other would throttle him if he so much as tried. So the Frenchman settled for simply smiling back despite his dizziness. He was falling far too fast.

"I'm Matthew, by the way," the little blonde said, smiling and offering his hand to his patient.

"Yes, I know," Arthur said, shaking the offered hand and smiling politely.

A knowing smile crossing his face, Matthew asked, "Do you remember when we were introduced, or do you just remember my name from when Francis told you about me?"

Freezing up for a moment, Arthur eventually admitted, albeit rather bashfully, "I just remember Francis talking about you..."

Laughing amiably, Matthew chuckled, "I thought so! You probably don t remember much of the past few days, do you?"

"Not really, no..." Arthur trailed off, awkwardly tossing his gaze about the room. It was a large and nicely furnished as he had expected. This boy was a relative of Francis's, after all, and Arthur imagined Matthew would have equally expensive tastes. It seemed he had imagined right. "I heard you say that we've been here for two days already..."

"It's nothing to worry about," Matthew reassured him, tossing a quick glance up at Francis. "Just a mix of a stress cold and seasickness, as far as I can tell. You ought to be up and about by the end of the day."

Suppressing a chuckle, Francis managed to ask, "How is it a tough guy like you gets sea sick anyway?"

"My brothers tossed me out of a boat and into the Channel, knowing perfectly well that I couldn t swim," Arthur explained, shrugging his shoulders in an oddly dismissive manner. "I suppose I was traumatized."

Silence fell heavy around the three of them for a moment, their breathing and the ticking of the clock on the nearby mantle the only sounds in the plush room.

"Your own brothers would do such a thing?" Matthew eventually asked, breaking the silence. "That s terrible..."

"I don't think they meant it to be malicious," Arthur said. "They could all swim, and I think it was just their way of trying to teach me. Our father apparently taught them that way as well, so they figured it would work fairly well on me. Needless to say, it didn t." He laughed a bit, his hand darting up to the back of his neck. "They were always doing things like that: Playing tricks on me and making me the butt of their jokes."

"It's stories like that," Matthew said quietly, "that make me grateful that I'm an only child."

"I can't imagine being an only child," was Arthur's response, staring down at his hands thoughtfully. He began cracking his knuckles, smirking a bit when Francis flinched at the unpleasant popping sound. "As much as my brothers picked on me, I think I would have been terribly lonely without them around."

Matthew just smiled.

"So..." Arthur glanced awkwardly over at Francis and asked, Did all of the legal nonsense get taken care of? I don't remember much of it..."

"Well, we aren't citizens," Francis answered, "but we do have the proper visas. If we're still here in a year's time, though, we'll have to have them renewed if we mean to stay."

"I'm not sure if I plan to stay or not..."

The Englishman's answer caught Francis off guard; there was no use in denying that. "I thought you intended to return to London and reopen the caf ?" the Frenchman asked, suddenly feeling a bit concerned. "It's your family's legacy, is it not?"

"It is," Arthur replied, "but if there are no more Kirklands to run it, then there's no point in it even staying open. I may as well retire and give the new generation the chance to start their own legacies after the war ends. It's selfish to keep the caf open for my own sake, isn't it?"

"Hardly!"

The Frenchman and the Englishman both jumped a bit at the timid little Canadian's sudden outburst.

"If you give up on the caf ," Matthew continued, "what are your children going to do for money? Would you really prefer them to go out on their own instead of working for their family's business?"

"I don't think I'm ever going to have children," Arthur said softly.

That seemed to genuinely confuse Matthew. "Why not?" he inquired. "You seem nice enough, and you're..." He trailed off, blushing a bit before he continued. "Nice-looking. I don't think it'd be too hard for you to find a wife. And you're a veteran! And a foreigner! Women love that!"

Chuckling a bit in response, Arthur said, "It's not my looks or my personality that make it impossible. I'm not..." He cleared his throat loudly, awkwardly. "I'm not interested in women, you see."

"Oh..." It was Matthew s turn to clear his throat, his face flushing bright red. "Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn t have assumed..."

"It doesn't matter," Arthur replied. "I just prefer no one to know about it. Honestly, I'm surprised Francis didn't inform you of it while I was unconscious."

The Frenchman gasped, feigning offense. "I would never!" he cried in a rather melodramatic manner.

Arthur just laughed.

"I am not that much of a gossip," Francis said, pouting a bit in a poor attempt to restrain his own laughter. "And one's sexuality is a very touchy subject, so I decided it would be best for you to tell Matthew on your own, if you chose to tell him at all."

"I'm not really all that concerned about it," Arthur replied. "Matthew seems to be a sensible lad. And if he did have the gall to tell anyone-" That startlingly sharp glare found its way to Matthew, who literally flinched in response "-he would find himself on the receiving end of my cane, and believe you me, that is not a pleasant place to be."

"I wouldn't have told anyone anyway!" the little blonde all but squeaked in response, leaning as far back in his chair as he could without tipping himself over. "It's not my business to tell!"

A wicked smile crossed Arthur's face. "There's a good lad."

Matthew sighed, sinking down into his chair, still looking rather pale. "You're a little scary, you know that?" he muttered.

"Only when I need to be," was Arthur s matter-of-fact response.

Shaking his head, Francis chuckled, "Can we please get back to the business at hand? Arthur, cherie, are you sure you wish to close the caf down?"

"I'm positive," the Englishman replied. "There's no use in keeping a family legacy for a family that'll never exist." He paused for a moment before his eyes lifted to meet Francis's. "And what about you? Do you plan to return to Paris and reopen your family's firm?"

"I don't."

"Francis!"

"Matthew, please." Francis sighed, looking up to meet his cousin's eyes. "There's nothing left for us in Paris. I heard a report on the radio this morning. The entire district has been destroyed: The mansion, the office, everything. But all of our money is here, in New York. You even came down from Vancouver to make sure we kept it. You know as well as I do that we're better off starting over from here than going back."

"Well, being a bartender isn't exactly the most lucrative job in the world," Matthew murmured, his eyes on the floor between his shoes. "We have quite a bit put away, but it can only hold us over for so long."

"At least you have something saved up," Arthur muttered bitterly. "I have practically nothing."

"We'll help you if we can," Matthew said sweetly, reaching out to place a soft hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Our family doesn't have much in the way of friends, and since you're a friend now, we'll do whatever we can to help you out."

Arthur chuckled at that, though his tone was still a bit bitter. "Matthew, you don't even know me," was all he said.

"I know you well enough to know that Francis likes you," Matthew said, "and that you like him enough to come here with him. And if you like Francis that much, you must be a friend. And I also know that a friend helps a friend in any way they can."

Still disbelieving, Arthur shook his head. "You really are a sweet boy, aren't you?" he murmured.

Matthew gave a soft, warm smile in return. "I like to think I am."

"It runs in the family," Francis added, and Arthur just laughed.

"You seem to be feeling better," Matthew said after a few moments, still smiling a bit. "I can take you and Francis down to the club for a drink tomorrow night, if you like. My treat."

Exchanging a quick glance with Francis, Arthur smiled. "I like the sound of that." 


	5. Chapter 5

The club was livelier than Arthur had expected. As quiet as Matthew was, the Englishman hadn't expected him to work in a jazz club of all places, filled with smoke and the scent of alcohol and the addictive beats of jazz music in the air. Arthur really wasn't sure how to feel in such a place.

Francis, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease, sitting on the barstool at Arthur's right, chatting amicably with his cousin as the younger blonde worked. "So what made you decide to get into bartending?" the Frenchman asked.

"I did it on a whim, actually," Matthew answered, using a white cloth to clean the inside of a large beer stein. "I came in here one night, and I saw one of the waitresses, and I figured working here would be the best way for me to get to know her."

The Frenchman laughed in reply, "Of course it would be for a woman!"

"Is she here now?" Arthur brought himself to ask, looking around for said woman.

"She is," Matthew said, flushing a bit as he set the mug aside in favor of another. "But I d rather you didn t speak to her. I get the feeling you d scare her off. She s very shy."

"What's her name?" the Frenchman inquired curiously. "And what's she like? Is she very pretty?"

His face flushed a brilliant crimson, Matthew proceeded to tell his cousin about the girl he was so enamored with: "Her name is Katyusha. Katyusha Braginskaya. She's from the Ukraine. She's really sweet and very pretty... She's got really pale blonde hair, and pretty blue eyes and she's really tall for a girl. She's wonderful!"

"Point her out, Francis insisted. "I need to see this wonderful girl for myself."

With a reassuring nod from Arthur, Matthew sighed and pointed to the far end of the bar, where a pretty waitress was picking up a tray loaded with drinks. "That s her," the Canadian says. "What do you think?"

Arthur just smiled.

"I think she s very pretty," Francis said, smiling warmly, "and look at the size of her-"

"I need two pitchers, Mattie!" an accented voice shouted. A tall, dark-skinned man stepped up to the bar, a thick cigar between his lips.

"Got it!" Matthew said, grateful for the distraction.

The dreadlocked man glanced over at Arthur and Francis, a curious expression on his face. "These two friends of yours?" he asked.

"They are, actually," Matthew replied, filling the first of the two requested pitchers with beer from the tap built into the counter. "Francis is my cousin, and Arthur is a friend of the family. Guys, this is Maximo. He plays the trumpet here. He's from... It's Cuba, right?"

A deep, rumbling laugh spilled past Maximo's lips at that. "Yeah, I'm from Cuba. And what about you two?" he inquired.

"I'm from Paris," Francis replied. "And Arthur here is from London."

The Cuban visibly winced at that. "The war's done a real number over there, huh?"

"Oui, it has," Francis said bitterly, nodding his head absently. "That's why Arthur and I are here, actually."

"Are you citizens?"

The Frenchman shook his head. "No," he said, "but we do have visas. We're just here for the year."

"Hopefully the war'll be over by then," Arthur added, sipping at the tumbler of scotch in front of him.

"We can hope," Francis agreed.

"Here you go," Matthew suddenly said, setting the two filled pitchers on the counter. "Just bring them back when you're done, eh?"

"Got it." With a nod to Francis and Arthur, Maximo took the pitchers and left, moving across the club to the stage at the front, far on the other side of the room, setting them on the little table before joining the rest of the band, who were currently in repose.

"Do you know the rest of the band?" Arthur asked, glancing over at the ragtag mixture of musicians seated on the stage.

"Not all of them," Matthew replied, filling a glass with whiskey and sliding it down the bar to a patron on the other end. "The fellow on base is Lars. He's from the Netherlands, I think. He and his little sister came here a few months ago, and she works as a waitress on the side. Sweet girl. Let's see... The pianist is Roderich. Austrian. Honestly, with that accent, I'm surprised they haven't shipped him off to an internment camp. And the singer, Elizaveta, is his wife. She's pretty sweet, but I've heard that if you get on her bad side, she won't hesitate to beat the snot out of you."

"And who's the boss?" Arthur asked, suddenly feeling curious. "With a group like this, I imagine you'd need a pretty strong authority figure."

Matthew burst into laughter at that. "Oh, hardly!" he chuckled. "Our boss is kind of an idiot, actually. Don't get me wrong, he runs the place just fine, but he's not the brightest bulb in the box, if you catch my drift. We haven't seen him for quite some time, though. He's in Europe fighting."

"He's a soldier?"

"That's right." Matthew swept his hair away from his forehead absently. "He was on his way to Berlin the last time we heard from him. That was a few weeks ago, I think."

Francis s ears perked at that, and his eyes darted over to Arthur, who had a slightly startled look on his face.

"What's his name?" the Englishman asked in an oddly tight voice, flinching a bit when Francis placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Jones," Matthew said, albeit hesitantly, picking up on the urgency in Arthur's voice. "Alfred F. Jones. Not sure what the F stands for, but..." He trailed off for a moment. "Do you know him, Arthur?"

"I do." Arthur turned slowly to Francis, his eyes wide as saucers. "He owns this place, Francis..."

"So I heard."

"That means that he'll come here after the war is over..." Arthur stared down at the scratched, water-stained wood of the bar, his eyes wide and glazed over, as if he were in a trance. "And if he comes here, that means..." He trailed off, apparently too mesmerized by whatever vision lay behind his eyes to voice his conclusion.

Francis gave a sad smile. "It means you'll get to see him again."

A breathless little giggle slipped past Arthur's lips. "I'll get to see him again..."

"How do you know him, exactly?" Matthew asked a bit awkwardly. "Do you know him personally? Or do you know him through his wife?"

Arthur froze, completely unaware of Francis's comforting hand on his shoulder. "His... Wife?" There was a long exhale. "Alfred has a wife?"

"Yes, Miss Natalya," Matthew explained. "She's Katyusha's younger sister. That's why Katyusha works here: Miss Natalya talked Jones into it. I m not sure I like Miss Natalya very much," the Canadian carried on rather obliviously. "She's really beautiful, but she seems awfully cold... And she just had a baby, and I'm not sure someone so cold could really be a good mother..."

"They have a child?" Arthur was beginning to sound like he couldn't breathe, the words were so choked.

Hesitating, Matthew nodded. "They do. A little boy named Ivan. Miss Natalya gave birth a few weeks ago, so Jones wasn't here for it."

Arthur sighed, crossing his arms and resting them on the bar, staring down into his drink. "He has a family..."

"Arthur..." Francis scooted closer to the Englishman, the hand on the other's shoulder tightening. "There was no way for you to know. I'm sure he didn't-"

"Shut up, Francis." Arthur glared down at the bar, downing the rest of the scotch in his glass in one go. "Another."

"Arthur-"

"I said another, Matthew."

There was no arguing with that fearsome emerald glare, so Matthew reluctantly poured another tumbler-full from the bottle behind the counter. "Don't go overboard, okay?"

That glare was all the answer he got.

Sighing, the Canadian returned to polishing the glasses beneath the bar until another one of the house band's musicians came up to him. "Are you already out of beer?" Matthew asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I don't drink beer," the pianist, Roderich, said, "and therein lays the problem. I don't suppose you have any wine back there?"

Something in Arthur's mind stirred at that voice.

"Red or white?" Matthew asked, though the Englishman barely heard it.

"Red."

He was an S.S. officer! Roderich Edelstein! He was one of the doctors who had experimented on Jewish prisoners of war, and oh, he had done some grotesque things to those poor people. How the Hell had he managed to get into America? The woman on the stage singing Gloomy Sunday... She was his wife, wasn't she? Elizaveta, Matthew called her. She must have had something to do with his safe passage.

Gathering his strength and grabbing his cane, Arthur forced himself to his feet, ignoring Francis's questioning look. "Roderich Edelstein?"

"Yes?" the pianist replied, turning to face him. It wasn't three seconds before his eyes went wide and he breathed out a soft, "You."

A smirk spread over Arthur s face, spurred on by the alcohol burning in his veins. He was never any good at holding his liquor. Or his anger, for that matter. He was furious at Alfred, though he knew that he had no reason to be, but that fury needed an outlet. To pummel someone deserving of it would do for now, until he could pummel Alfred. "Yes, me," the Brit said, his tone deep and dangerous. "Did you miss me?"

"Of course not." The pianist's words were calm, but his dark, dark eyes were darting about, desperately in search of an escape route. "You killed Ludwig and may as well have been the one to kill Gilbert. You've killed my cousins and now you've come to kill me as well, is that it?"

"I just happen to be here," Arthur replied, smirking in an oddly menacing manner. "And what about you, Roderich? Do you want to kill me?"

"More than anything."

That was all the warning Arthur got before the barrel of the Luger was pressed against his forehead.

He would never have survived, had Francis not pulled him out of the way.

"Roderich, no!" a woman's voice shouted, and in mere seconds, the pianist's wife was upon them, struggling to get the gun away from her husband, and to keep he and Arthur apart, though Francis was doing a fair job of that as it was.

"Get him out of here!" It was Matthew's voice, still behind the bar, urging Francis to take Arthur elsewhere. "Maximo, call the police!"

"On it!" came the reply from the direction of the stage.

But before Arthur was allowed to escape, Roderich landed one hard, sharp kick to his already injured knee. "That's for my family," were the frigid words the Englishman heard before the pain overwhelmed him and he was enveloped in darkness. 


	6. Chapter 6

"Will he be all right?" Francis's voice was less than a foot away, sharp and clear, albeit sounding terribly concerned.

"Relatively," came an authoritative voice. Arthur assumed it was a doctor. "He's healthy overall, but his knee is all but ruined."

There was a long pause before Francis said in a strained voice, "Define ruined."

"There's no use to be had from it," the doctor said. "I doubt he could even get any use out of it with the cane at this point. Not without years of therapy. But I believe amputation might be a good option, at least regarding the pain."

Francis gave a shaky sigh, unable to come to terms with so much as the idea. "You're saying he won't be able to walk at all?" the Frenchman asked, his voice soft. "At all? Ever?"

"Unfortunately, that's how it looks."

Francis sighed again.

"Is this permanent?" Arthur asked, finally bringing himself to open his eyes before struggling a bit to sit up in the lumpy, uncomfortable hospital bed. "Am I going to be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of my life?"

"That's how it appears," the doctor said, pushing his shoulder-length blonde hair away from his face. "The remains of the kneecap have been completely decimated. We've removed what we can, but the replacement is makeshift and won't offer much in the way of mobility. I think a wheelchair is your best option."

It was Arthur's turn to sigh.

With a nod of acknowledgement, the doctor excused himself.

"Arthur, cherie..."

"Don't."

Disappointed, the Frenchman withdrew the hand that had been reaching for the other's shoulder.

"What am I supposed to do?" Arthur asked no one in particular, staring down at his hands. "I'm an ocean away from home, I have next to nothing to my name, and now I can't even function..."

"You'll do what you always do," Francis replied, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, less than three inches away from the other. "You'll keep calm and carry on, as you Brits like to say."

That got the slightest ghost of a smile, but nothing more.

"You don't have anything to worry about, cher," Francis said, leaning in to press his lips to the other's ear. "I m here. I plan to take care of you any way I can."

"I don't need you to take care of me," was Arthur's response, though the blush over his face made him feel like the sort of child who needed to be taken care of. "I'm a grown man; I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," the Frenchman said, watching as the doctor stepped out of the room. "But it doesn't mean that you should."

Arthur paused for a moment before he smirked a bit, asking, "What's in it for you?"

The Frenchman chuckled, though it sounded a bit bitter. "I don't need anything in return, cher," he said, smiling sadly.

"And you expect me to believe that?" Arthur asked, still smiling.

"I'd like for you to believe it."

There was a brief moment of silence before the smile started fading away from the Englishman's face. "You really...?"

He could swear he saw Francis's eyes light up at that. "I really what?" the older man asked.

"You really..." Arthur sighed. "Somehow, I don't believe you."

That light was almost instantly extinguished by those words. "Why not?" Francis asked, his voice just barely above a whisper.

"You flirt with everyone you talk to," the Englishman explained. "Why on Earth would I be any different than anyone else? I'm just another person for you to flirt with."

"That's not true." Francis reached out to touch Arthur's shoulder, this time undeterred. "Believe me, cher, that could not be farther from the truth."

"Then what is the truth?" Arthur asked, a challenge in his eyes.

"The truth..." Francis sighed, his eyes focusing on his expensive-looking wristwatch. "I adore you. You're brilliant and gorgeous and just surly enough that it's charming."

Arthur was silent.

"Arthur...?"

"And you truly mean this?" The Englishman's voice was measured, soft. He was being overly cautious again, it seemed. "You aren't just flirting with me?"

"I truly mean it," Francis replied, his hand slipping down Arthur's arm to lace their fingers together on the dingy sheet. "I know that you're heartbroken over what's happened with Alfred, and that you re upset over bumping into an old enemy, and about the fight back in the club, but I'd like to be the one to comfort you, if I may."

Those lovely emerald eyes were focused rather intently on their laced fingers, and eventually, Arthur let out a long breath. "You're certain of this?" he asked, his voice a breathy whisper.

"I've never been more certain of anything in all my life," was Francis s response. "Arthur, cherie, I-"

"Francis! Is Arthur all- Oh!" Matthew stopped dead in his tracks at the door. "I'm sorry! I can come back later if you want..."

Pulling away from Francis and clearing his throat, Arthur straightened himself up as best he could. "Don't worry about it," the Englishman said, his face still rather flushed. "Did you need something, Matthew?"

"Um... Not really..." The little Canadian stood in the doorway, shuffling his feet awkwardly. "Um... Are you all right, Arthur? You're not hurt, are you?"

The Englishman shook his head weakly. "No, I'm all right," he lied.

That earned him a dirty look from Francis, who did nothing to move away from him. "That's not true," the Frenchman said, his voice sounding oddly heavy. "He's hurt..." He sighed. "Quite badly."

Matthew's pretty blue-violet eyes went wide at that. "Arthur..." He sounded concerned. "Can you still walk?"

Hesitating for nearly a full minute, Arthur softly breathed out his answer: "No."

There was a soft intake of breath from Matthew before he whispered, "I'm so sorry. If I hadn't taken you to the club, this never would have happened..."

"It's not your fault," came Arthur's reply. "If I had seen him anywhere else, it would have happened just the same. I just can't believe he was hired at all."

"Jones wanted to give him a second chance," Matthew said. "He's got a bit of a hero complex. I guess he wanted to be a hero to Roderich and Elizaveta when they came here."

"I suppose so..." Arthur sighed, crossing his arms and leaning back into the lumpy pillow behind him, propping himself up against it. "He wants to be a hero to everyone, doesn't he?"

Tossing a weary glance at Francis and receiving a reassuring nod, Matthew said softly, "He does."

Arthur's eyes stayed on Matthew for a moment longer before they dropped down to his hands, narrowing in thought. "You know something?"

Still reluctant, the little Canadian softy inquired, "What's that?"

"I'm not some damsel in distress." Arthur s voice had taken on an unexpected trait: Determination. "I'm not a child. I'm a grown man, and I don't need anyone to take care of me. I can take care of myself. I don't need a hero."

Francis smiled. "No, you don't."

Gaining confidence, Arthur smiled as well. It quickly vanished, though, when a tiny girl with huge aquamarine eyes and short blonde hair steered a wheelchair into the room, parking it beside the bed once Francis moved out of the way.

"Here we go," she said, smiling sweetly. "I think this one ought to be the right size. Would you like to try it out, Mr. Kirkland?"

Sighing, Arthur pushed himself into a sitting position, saying, "I suppose I may as well."

The nurse nodded and asked, "Would you like some help?"

"I'll manage."

She nodded once more as she watched as Arthur maneuvered his left leg effortlessly over the side of the bed, though he struggled with the right before he eventually slid off the side and into the chair. "How does it feel?" she asked, moving to stand behind him.

"It feels fine, I suppose." Arthur placed his hands on the wheels, feeling the hard rubber beneath his palms. He gave them a bit of a push, propelling himself forward an inch or two.

Matthew smiled. "We have an elevator at the apartment," he said. "You can get upstairs that way. You won't need to change anything there, at least."

"That's good, then," Arthur said, smiling a bit in spite of himself. "I'm pretty much a homebody anyway."

"I'll leave you here to get used to it," the nurse said, smiling as well. "Just call for Lili -That's me- If you need anything, all right?"

"Actually," Arthur piped up, "is there any way I could check myself out? I don't like hospitals, and I'd rather not be here any longer than I have to."

"Um... I'll bring Dr. Zwingli back, all right?" the nurse said. "I think you should speak with him before you make any decisions."

"That's fine."

Still looking rather rattled, the little nurse nodded her head and left the room.

"Is it a good idea for you to check yourself out?" Matthew asked, the look of concern returning to his face. "Shouldn't you stay until you at least get used to being in the wheelchair?"

"I think Matthew is right, cher," Francis said. "You should probably stay a few days, at the very least."

"We'll talk to the doctor," Arthur compromised. "If he can come up with a compelling reason for me to stay, then I ll stay. If he can't, then I'm coming home today."

Clearly still reluctant, Matthew nodded.

It was then that Arthur's eyes widened. "Home..." He sighed. "I don't have a home anymore, do I?"

"Of course you do!" Matthew exclaimed, moving to sit on the bed, beside Arthur s wheelchair. "You're welcome to stay with Francis and me for as long as you want!"

"While I appreciate the thought," the Englishman said softly, "I doubt anywhere in this bloody country will ever be home."

"You're homesick, aren't you, cherie?" Francis gave a sad smile at that. "I'm missing home myself."

"The big problem," Arthur said morosely, "is the shape I'm in. How on Earth am I going to manage to get back to London? Someone would have to carry me onto and off of the ship, and-" He stopped himself when he took notice of Francis moving to kneel before him.

"Then I'll go with you," the Frenchman said, sounding quite sincere. "I'll go to London, and I'll carry you wherever you need to go."

Smiling a bit sarcastically, Arthur responded with, "I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again nonetheless, Francis: You don't even know me."

"I know you well enough to know that I-" But he cut himself off when Arthur held up a silencing hand.

"It's barely been a week," the Englishman said. "You don't know the first thing about me."

Francis nodded his head rather sullenly. "That is true," was all he said. Then he turned to his cousin. "Matthew, ma petit, I want you to go home, oui? I will stay here with Arthur and pass on any information I get as soon as I can."

Nodding a bit reluctantly, Matthew backed out of the room, whispering a soft, "Good luck, Arthur."

The English smiled a bit at that. "Thank you," he said as he watched the little Canadian exit into the hall.

Still kneeling before the wheelchair, Francis mustered up the most sincere look he could, locking his eyes onto Arthur's. "I'm sick of this 'you don't know me' nonsense," the Frenchman said. "So tell me about yourself. I want to know everything." 


End file.
